


Ya-yas

by melianthegreat



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Dark, Drama, Gen, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25019101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melianthegreat/pseuds/melianthegreat
Summary: Jeremy's at the end of his rope following dismissal from the BBC. He takes a fateful drive down the A303
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/Richard Hammond/James May/Andy Wilman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Ya-yas

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature mainly for language, otherwise it's a teen & up story.
> 
> This is the first time I've ever written a Jeremy-centric story.

Jeremy clicked on the email from the BBC at the exact moment Andy Wilman called. "It really is you, isn't it, Wilman?" he asked tentatively. "It's not some hack from the _Daily Mail_ who's figured out how to spoof your mobile, is it?"

"It's really me," Andy answered, "and you're going to have to explain 'spoofing' to me." There was a pause. "Did you get the BBC email?"

"Reading it as we speak," Jeremy replied. "So, they found a way to fire me for what I did without officially firing me."

"Not renewing your contract helps them save face," Andy stated. "The fans would have been warmongering if they'd fired you. Especially since that pinhead lumped you in with that paedophile bastard Jimmy Saville. I guess it helps you not sue them for defamation."

"The upside I guess is now I don't have to be forced to smile whenever they tell me to bend over and grab my ankles," Jeremy answered bitterly.

"Me either," Andy replied. "I tendered my resignation an hour ago. And I assume later this afternoon Hammond and May will probably do the same."

"They're quitting too?"

"Haven't they told you?" Andy asked with surprise.

"I spoke to James the other day," Jeremy replied, "but somehow the topic didn't come up. As for Richard....I haven't heard from him since the suspension started. He's really pissed at me."

"He's scared, Jez," Andy answered softly. "He's 45 and his name is mentioned with yours as a presenter. He's not worried about money as much as he's having to start over at his age. You and me and James, we can retire if we want and do something else. He's too young."

"So why doesn't he just stay with the show, then?" Jeremy asked. "He's the most popular, prolific presenter on the BBC. He can stay one more series and write his own ticket."

"Hammond says the chemistry would be all wrong," Andy said. "They'd either try to force a replication of the old formula, which wouldn't work because you just can't reproduce the bond you three have, or they'll listen too much to market analysis and focus groups and try to come up with a new format that ticks all the demographic boxes and would be an utter misery. James feels the same."

Jeremy nodded, though he was aware Andy couldn't see him. "I appreciate their loyalty," he replied. He sighed. "I guess that's it, then. The end."

"Let Hammond be upset a bit, you know how his temper is," Andy advised his best mate. "Meanwhile, are you okay, Clarkson? Is there anything you want you don't have right now? I could always come over."

"Don't do that," Jeremy replied, "the paparazzi hoard would inundate you. As for whether or not I'm okay, the honest answer is no. But it was expected, so I will be okay, I guess."

There was another reluctant pause. "I know it's practically impossible for you, but do try to get some sleep. Allow yourself to wallow in misery for the next little while, then go to bed. In the morning you may have some perspective on it. Goodnight ."

"Goodnight." Jeremy hung up and intended to follow Andy's advice.

Hours later, after the online media onslaught and the nearly gleeful reading of the announcement on TV and listening to people weighing in, and at least one of the newspapers he wrote a weekly column for suggested he take a leave of absence until everything calmed down , then downing a bottle of wine and trying to sleep, his head running like a hamster in a wheel, Jeremy was far removed from taking his mate's advice.

God, he'd fucked everything up, he said to himself. It wasn't the first time during this period he'd said that. He was being a diva after a long, hard day, yet another shit day in a long series of shit days that saw his marriage end and his mother die and the bosses at the Beeb decide he needed minding like a fucking toddler and the tabloids having a field day over it all and he just let it get to him. Now because of it his favourite toy had been taken away from him--the programme he and Andy had revived, had so carefully reared and nurtured, had given so much work and creativity to have it come to life and be bigger than ever imagined. It was taken away and he was left with nothing. His marriage ended and the kids went with it, but at least he still had _Top Gear_. His mother died, but at least he had _Top Gear_. Now there was nothing, and all those who'd relied on it to keep a roof over their heads and feeding their families had nothing and it was all his fault.

And then there was May and Hammond. There was a part of Jeremy that knew ultimately James and Richard would be alright, their talents and skills as writers and presenters, along with their various interests would have them land on their feet. And, apart from the occasional extravagance, neither man was stupid with their money and it was carefully protected. But right now that wasn't where Jeremy's thoughts were taking him. He'd disappointed them, too. James could take or leave the trappings that came with the career, but it was the work he often loved, and now it wasn't there. Richard was worse. When Jeremy met Richard he was a young first-time father living in a tiny house making ends meet. His second daughter had lived her entire life in the programme. Over the years Richard and Jeremy could relate to each other as husbands and fathers, coaxing each other through spousal troubles and guilt that their careers took them away from their families for so long. Most of Richard Hammond's career was wrapped up in the programme, and in exchange he'd literally given his body and blood. And now that was gone because Jeremy destroyed it.  
It was 3:45 AM. Jeremy got out of bed and dressed, grabbed his coat and keys, then walked out of his penthouse to the car park. His AMG Mercedes was waiting for him. It certainly wasn't the first time that car had been used for a late-night drive, a way for Jeremy to escape his dark thoughts and worries and wind himself down for sleep. This time the dark thoughts were overwhelmingly dark, and so there would be no escape. He was driving now to embrace them, to see where they would lead.

London was mostly asleep, the few he encountered were sanitation workers and distributors of the Morning Editions to the newsstands and shops. Jeremy drove until he found the motorway, then he tuned his radio to a station giving him the right kind of hard music, and floored it. He didn't care how fast he was going, he was simply content to let the darkness take him wherever. If it wasn't so far he would have been tempted to drive himself all the way to Germany and find an unrestricted Autobahn. But that also meant getting cooped up on that train that would take him and the car through the Chunnel to France, and he wasn't in the mood.

The hard Eurobeats to U2's song "Mofo" came on. Jeremy's foot came down harder on the pedal. He was weaving through the scant traffic, quickly exiting London's environs; whatever he was trying to embrace or bury wasn't going to be there. The speed, the lights, the passing night was pulling it out of his insides as the Edge's jet engine/Nazgul screech guitar slapped him back to the present.

 _Looking for a sound that's gonna drown out the world_ , Bono intoned.

"Fucking right," Jeremy replied out loud. He went faster. The world was chasing him. The press and his responsibilities, the lives of the people he disrupted, all the obligations, the pressures to make everything perfect, all of it was falling behind him. 

Halfway to Stonehenge, on the radio came a classic guitar riff, a haunting refrain, a cowbell. "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult. Jeremy realized no matter how fast he went, all that worry and care and heartache would catch up with him, there was no outrunning. The refrain _We can be like they are_ was repeating over and over...

"Dear Mr. Clarkson,...

_We can be like they are_

In light of recent events, it is my duty to inform you....

_We can be like they are_

Regretfully we will not be able to renew your contract....

_Don't fear the Reaper_

I'm sorry, Mr. Clarkson...

_You'll be able to fly_

We did all we could for your mother....

_40,000 men and women every day_

Final Dissolution of Marriage...

_Don't be afraid_

Custody of the three children will be awarded to...

_Breeding unhappiness_

Visitation rights will be awarded to...

_Come on baby_

_Don't fear the Reaper_

_Baby, take my hand_

_Baby, I'm your man_

The darkness swirled around him, the lights becoming a blur the faster he went. At the last minute Jeremy saw an exit for motorway services. He exited at speed, sliding into the petrol station's empty car park and screeching to a halt. Jeremy sat in his car, shaking all over. He wondered how close he'd come to actually doing something, and knowing he was much too close; the music had been telling him to go faster, stop caring, find a way to silence the voices and memories and regrets, turn it all off forever, escape. But just at the point he was ready to absolutely let go and leave the ledge the exit came into his vision. So now he sat in the car under the florescent lights, shaking and panting, wondering how in the hell did he let himself get to such a desperate point in his life.

Then he recalled everything, and he sank his head onto the steering wheel and wept.

After awhile Jeremy managed to calm himself, deciding he needed a cup of coffee and a splash of water on his face to decide his next step. Entering the all-night convenience store, he bought a large coffee and a sticky bun to eat, not caring that both tasted rather clinical and artificial, sitting at a plastic table that probably tasted less plastic than the sweet pastry. He didn't notice anyone else had entered until a shadow loomed over him and a male voice asked:

"Excuse me...are you alright, sir?"

Jeremy looked up. Standing over him was a patrol officer, in full kit. Jeremy knew how fast he'd been going, knew he'd broken about 806 traffic laws between London and here, and it was a fair cop. The tabloids were going to have multiple orgasms reporting his arrest and jailing. All Jeremy could do was sigh and stare at the floor, close to tears.

"You passed me a few exits back, at a considerable speed," the patrol officer said gently. "Are you aware how fast you were going, sir?"

"I know it was quite fast, Officer," Jeremy offered, "and for that I have no excuse."

"I patrol this section of the motorway often," the patrol officer said as he had a seat across from Jeremy. "Quite often someone who drives at such a speed this late, or this early depending on your perspective, would be someone testing the power of their car. Judging from the car outside, I assume that is your Mercedes. However, I am aware of who you are, Mr. Clarkson." At that Jeremy looked up into the officer's eyes.

"Oh, are you a fan?" Jeremy asked softly and sadly.

"You've been all over the news lately," the officer explained. "So I can only conclude you are like another driver I see: you have become overwhelmed by the darkness in your life, and either you're trying to outrun it or getting it out of your system."

"Getting it out of my system?" Jeremy asked.

"Some of us can feel it building inside," the patrol officer said, his voice soft. "We know it's something we shouldn't have in there, and we have to get it out. I like to call it the Ya-yas. And sooner or later everyone has to get the Ya-yas out, or that dark thing can take over. On this stretch of the motorway, it's running a car as fast and as hard as you can."

Jeremy nodded in acknowledgment and cast his stare down, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry, Officer. I won't protest any citations you choose to give me over this."

The officer grinned. "The important thing is you stopped," he replied. "Sometimes they don't in time, and then I have to hose off the scene and contact members of the families. I have to do that more often than I care to admit." There was a pause. "As for the citation, I did not report it, therefore you are free to go, as long as you take this as a warning to find a less-dangerous way to get the Ya-yas out. But if I spot you doing this again..."

Jeremy chuckled ruefully. "Trust me, you won't," he replied. "It's just, with everything going on, all of it came over me and for a moment I simply stopped caring about everything. And, honest to God, I have no earthly idea why I'm saying all of this to you."

The patrol officer gave Jeremy a faint grin. "Perhaps you still feel the need to get it out, but you're choosing a much safer method," he offered. "Mr. Clarkson, I really cannot be a Nanny to you, but please follow my advice and try to find an alternative for yourself. As much as it seems otherwise right now, there would be so many who would be sad if you just ran off the road and hit a bollard." The officer stood and prepared to leave. "By the way," he said, turning back to face Jeremy, "if you do feel tempted to try this again to get the Ya-yas out, do stay away from listening to Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper". I've heard it gives some people...ideas." He left.

It took a pandemic and shutdown and a particularly introspective mood by Jeremy to finally discuss that moment with Richard and James. They had missed each other terribly during the time apart, Jeremy finally helping Andy complete the Madagascar episode to send to Amazon, and knowing Richard was trying to entertain fans with home videos (though everyone knew his daughter Izzy was becoming the real star) and James had been negotiating with Amazon to make a cooking programme. They were sitting around on a private Skype call, drinking and reminiscing about the times when they could be together, when Jeremy launched into it with, "Guys, there's something I probably need to tell you that nobody knows, not even Wilman." From there he told the entire story, to the stunned silence of his colleagues.

But there was another part of the story, a part he would never tell. It would haunt his dreams, wake him from his limited sleep, make his hair a little greyer when he considered it. Jeremy had taken the patrol officer's advice, figured some things out, straightened things up in his life, and then the idea for The Grand Tour came along. Being a brilliant journalist, Jeremy set out to find the patrol officer's name and personally thank him for the understanding, because what had nearly happened to him on that motorway near Stonehenge, what he was being lured into letting happen, would never have allowed any of the good things that came later to happen. But nobody could verify any particular patrol of that stretch of the motorway at that time or that day. Jeremy dug deeper, still no information.

Then, one day, a woman got in touch with him, saying he was apparently looking for her son and they should meet. Jeremy agreed. But when he walked into the tiny cafe near the exit from that motorway, seeing the woman alone, Jeremy's heart dropped to his feet. She explained how her son had been accepted for training to become a Patrol Officer, and how the night before he was to report for orientation he was a bit nervous and keyed up. He'd gone out for a drive in his Capri to settle himself. It wasn't until the early morning that she got the call...how It had been instantaneous....speed was a factor...he'd hit a bollard....an 8-track tape of Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper"-- _his favourite song_ \--had been playing. 

And that over the years there had been sightings by motorists of a Patrol Officer near Stonehenge, who'd stop them late at night while driving fast.


End file.
